Water
by 88Keys
Summary: A series of five one-shots, each focusing on a different team member and situation. Complete.
1. Clean

_Water_

A series of vignettes by 88Keys

Finished: 1/5/07

_Water _is a series of one-shots, each about a different character at different points in their lives. Each involves water (duh) and what it means to the character at that time. It is life to some, death to others.

These vingettes are stand-alone one-shots. They do not run together. Think of them as individual scenes, not so much as a continuing story. This was kind of an experimental piece, so I hope it works. Your reviews and comments are always appreciated.

_Clean_

He couldn't seem to wash it off.

He'd been in the shower for almost an hour now. Soaping, scrubbing, rinsing, and repeating, with the water as hot as he could stand it. His skin was bright red all over.

He still felt dirty.

He'd spent last night in a sewer. A damp, filthy, bacteria-infested sewer. The walls and floor were wet and slimy with rainwater and urine and feces and God-knows what else. The stench was powerful. Overwhelming. In fact, he was pretty sure it was the smell that had brought him out of unconsciousness.

"Welcome to Hell," Atlas had said.

For a few moments at least, he had believed him.

Oh, and there was a dead body, too. A long dead, decayed, almost completely decomposed body. It was slimy and wet and smelly, too. Does being in a sewer make a body decompose faster? He wasn't sure, but he wouldn't be surprised if it did.

He tried not to look at it while he was down there. But every time he did see it, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was looking at his future. Seeing how he would look in six months or so. Atlas would go first, and he would have to watch him decompose while he himself slowly died of starvation.

He could still see it, even now, in his mind. He blinked to clear the vision, and focused his eyes on the downpour in front of him. He turned the water temperature up even hotter.

_Trapped. Starving. Dying._

It had taken him three hours to unlatch the door. The first dozen or so times that the knife slipped off the latch, he wasn't too bothered. He just had to get the right angle, the right amount of pressure. But each time after that, he felt his frustration level rise and his hope die a little. Each time the bolt fell back in place, he saw the body. Saw his future.

This was his tomb. It would be his grave.

_Just like Cohen._

When it was finally over and he got back to NCIS, they were too polite to say anything. Too kind to point out how awful he looked, and how nasty he smelled. He could feel it, seeped through his clothes and on his skin and even deeper. He debriefed as quickly as possible, and Gibbs let him go home without even finishing his report.

"DiNozzo."

"Yeah, boss?"

"Go home. Take a shower, get some rest."

He hadn't argued.

He'd seen a lot of dead bodies during his career. A lot of pain and suffering, blood and senseless violence. Being able to shake it off was part of the job. Only one other case had made him feel so filthy. He had been a rookie cop, on the job for about four months, when he worked a homicide involving three little girls. The killer had abused them. Killed them. Mutilated them.

He had managed to hold it together until he got home late that night. Then he went in the bathroom and sobbed so hard that he threw up.

He had showered for an hour that night. Just like he was doing now.

The water was getting cold. The hot water was all used up. He looked down at himself as he toweled off.

His skin was clean, at least.


	2. Swim

_Swim_

She wasn't athletic or competitive by nature. But there she stood, atop the platform, in a navy blue and gold tank suit. The colors of her new school.

Fitting in had not been easy. In her old school, she was well-liked, and had a reputation for being outgoing and fun. She had lots of friends. But then seventh grade hit, and her parents moved across town. It was supposed to be a "better" school, with more "opportunities." But it didn't feel better. Here, she was the girl who wore weird clothes and did ninth-grade level math and science, while most of the students were still fighting their way through basic algebra. Her attempts to be friendly were usually met with stony silence or insincere, one-word "polite" responses. She felt cast-out and alone.

Joining the swim team never crossed her mind, until the coach approached her one day in the hallway. "You're tall," she pointed out.

_Duh,_ she thought. She was already taller than all the boys and most of the girls in her class.

"Have you considered trying out for the swim team? With your long arms and legs, I bet you'd be a natural. Meet me right after school by the pool tomorrow, if you're interested."

She wasn't interested. But then three girls walked by, in their team jackets. They were talking and smiling, comfortable and content. _Like they belonged._

She met the coach the next day. To her own surprise, she _was_ a natural. With a few minor corrections to her form, she was moving through the water almost as fast as the top swimmers on the team.

Even more surprising was the enjoyment she felt. She liked the feeling of splashing down into the pool. She liked the cool, smooth water rushing past her body. She felt pride when she saw the seconds come off her time.

The other girls on the team looked skeptical when Coach announced that their newest member would be competing at the first meet in two weeks. She knew she would have to prove herself to them. Acceptance would not be handed to her.

She won the first heat, securing a place in the final race. As she stood poised, ready to dive in, she did not feel the competitive spirit that undoubtedly drove her fellow competitors. To her, it wasn't about beating them. It was about proving herself. It was personal.

_Splash._ The water rushed past her body once again. She felt cool, light, and strong. Fast. Then a perfectly executed turn. Repeat twice, then tag the wall.

She did not win. But she came in second. Coach said it was an impressive showing in her first race. After she dried off and changed clothes, she noticed some of the girls looking at her shyly.

"Umm…Abby? We usually go out for ice cream after a meet. You want to come with us?"


	3. Drown

_Drown_

He had no idea how long he had been sitting there, cold and shivering. He probably wouldn't have been so cold if he hadn't been soaking wet. And having all his clothes on would have helped, too.

It was very timely, this capture and interrogation. Waterboarding had been all over the news lately. Before today, he had been only vaguely aware of the practice. Just what he had learned as part of a four-week course on interrogation techniques at FLETC. He had filed the information away, to be accessed in the future if needed.

He had sincerely hoped he would never need it.

He never thought he would actually experience it.

"What is your name?"

Silence.

"What is the name of the organization you work for?"

He stared straight ahead, trying to pretend they weren't there.

The harsh punch to the face made ignoring them difficult.

"Are you having some difficulty hearing me, traitor? I asked you a question."

It was his first undercover mission.

It was not going well.

Another punch. Was that seven now? Or eight? He had lost count.

Stephens leaned in close, so close that Tim could feel his hot breath against his bruised cheek. "We know you are a cop. We already have your partner."

_Tony._

"We could go easier on him, and you, if you will just cooperate."

Had they really captured Tony? Everything had happened so fast, he had lost track of him. The team had been assigned a case involving weapons being smuggled out of a Navy base and sold illegally. Two informants had come forward. DiNozzo and McGee were to take their place, meeting the dealers to make an exchange. As soon as the deal went through, they would take them into custody. It should have been simple, straightforward.

Something went wrong. Tim hadn't realized it until everything was shouts and shots and fast motion. Someone had punched him in the face. He managed to recover and get in a couple of good jabs of his own before someone hit him over the head. When he came to, had been stripped down to his t-shirt and boxers and tied to a chair, here.

Wherever here was.

He hadn't seen what happened to DiNozzo.

"You are obviously well-trained," Stephens said. "Military, or maybe a federal agent? He's going to need some more persuasion," he said, looking up at the man standing behind the chair Tim was tied to.

The man nodded. Suddenly, Tim was flying backwards. His head slammed against the concrete floor as the straight-backed chair was overturned. He was flat on his back now.

A rag was stuffed into his mouth, making breathing difficult. Through the dim light, he could just make out the other man standing above him. He was unscrewing the cap off of a canteen.

Tim's eyes widened. _Oh, crap._

It was only two quarts of water, but it felt like gallons. It soaked the rag, which swelled to fill his whole mouth and started to slide down the back of his throat. His body jerked, but he could not move because of the bonds still holding him to the chair. He tried to cough, to spit out the gag, but he couldn't get any air. He gagged and choked, but nothing would come out.

Finally, the cascade ceased. The rag was jerked out of his mouth. He coughed and inhaled, the sweetest breath he had ever tasted. The chair was righted. He could barely hear his captors over the sound of his heart pounding.

"We will be back, and the next time will be much worse. Think about it."

He tried pulling on the ropes to loosen them, but they were expertly tied. They seemed to actually get tighter the more he struggled. His mind raced, wondering what had happened to Tony. Trying to think of a way to escape. And wondering what he had done to screw up the mission so badly. Was Tony in trouble because of him? Going through the same intense interrogation, because of him?

_Interrogation?_

Why couldn't he bring himself to call it "torture?"

He reminded himself that people rarely died from waterboarding.

It just _feels _like dying. Like being pushed right to the edge of death, until the terror and panic is so much that you _wish_ for death. Then being pulled back.

_No big deal, right? Not worth compromising the mission, or the team, or NCIS over. Right?_

True to their word, they came back. With a plastic five-gallon bucket of water instead of a canteen. This time, he managed to keep the back of his head from hitting the floor when they flipped the chair over.

"Your name." It was a command as much as a question.

Tim felt his stomach twist in nervous anticipation. He closed his eyes and braced himself, but quickly opened them again. He had never been one to look away when something was about to hurt.

Waves crashed over him. They had skipped the rag, because it was unnecessary this time. The volume of water more than made up for it. It slid down his throat, into his lungs, his stomach, his body. He wasn't just drowning; the water was consuming him. Panic like he had never felt rose up in him, but it couldn't escape. The water forced it back down into the pit of his stomach. He wanted to scream, to struggle, to fight, but he could only lie there in terror and take it.

"Who do you work for?!"

He managed to get in a single breath and clear enough water from his throat to answer.

"Go to hell."

The water came again, filling his eyes and ears and mouth. But it was only for a few seconds. Tim felt something hit his stomach. The bucket. They had dropped it.

There were shouts, or at least he thought there were. It was hard to hear over the ringing in his ears. Did someone say his name?

"McGee!"

_Tony. Thank God._ But he couldn't answer. The water had mixed with bile and was rising in him. He coughed and sputtered, the fear still intense. What was worse than drowning in water?

_Drowning in your own vomit, of course._

At the last possible second, he felt the chair being turned on its side. It all came out of him now, finally, flowing across the floor in a fast-moving torrent.

"McGee." Concerned eyes were just above him now. "Breathe."

"Tony," he finally managed to gasp. "You're… all right."

"Yeah, Probie," he answered, mildly amused. It was like Tim to wonder about someone else's welfare even while he was in bad shape himself. "How about you?" He carefully set the chair back up on its legs.

Tim felt his head spin. His lungs still ached; his throat still burned. "I'm…OK…" The attempt to talk promptly set off another coughing fit.

Tony quickly cut the ropes and helped him lean forward as he spit up what was hopefully the last of the bile.

"I'm sorry."

"For what, McGee?"

"The mission…I know…I screwed up."

"No, you didn't."

Tim looked up in surprise.

"It was my fault, Probie. I blew our cover. I screwed up. I'm sorry."

Through the dim light, he could see genuine guilt and remorse in Tony's eyes. "Ohh…"

_Not my fault. I didn't blow it._

"Your fault…" Now that his vision had cleared, he could see that Tony looked clean and dry. No bruises, no scrapes, no wet clothes.

"You got away."

Tony looked embarrassed. "I couldn't take them all. I had to get back-up. We found you as quickly as we could."

Tim digested this information for a moment. _INot my fault. I didn't screw up. _Tony pulled off his NCIS jacket and draped it around Tim's wet shoulders.

"Well, then," Tim replied, "I'm sorry about your shoes."

Tony looked down and grimaced. His expensive Italian leather shoes were covered in vomit.

A barely audible laugh made him look back up. Tim was looking at him, chuckling. He saw confusion, then relief flash across Tony's face.

"Those were worth more than your last paycheck, you know."

"DiNozzo! Help Ziva get these suspects out of here. Local LEO's should be here by now."

"On it, boss!"

"McGee," Gibbs said as he helped his youngest agent to a standing position. "You all right?"

"Yeah, boss." Tim took a deep breath. "I didn't tell them anything."

Gibbs placed a comforting hand on his shoulder as he led him towards the door. "I never doubted it, McGee."


	4. Thirst

**(Note:** The "fire and cloud" quote is from Deuteronomy 1:33. The document editor won't let me make a proper footnote).

_Thirst_

_I will die before I will quit._

Resolve is the most important thing. It must be kept at the forefront of the mind at all times, so that no wavering, no doubt, is allowed to creep in.

_I will not quit._

It was day six of the seven-day survival challenge. Not only did she have to survive in the unforgiving Negev Desert, she had to cover a certain amount of ground. No holing up under a rock for seven days. If all went well, she would find the base camp and complete the challenge.

The two energy bars and one canteen of water she had been given were long gone. The Rule of Threes kept running through her mind.

_Humans can survive three minutes without oxygen._

_Three hours in extreme cold._

_Three days with out water._

Unless you were in one of the hottest, driest climates on the planet.

She had managed to find shelter fairly easily each day, under the brown, dusty rocks that dotted the barren landscape. She stayed in and rested during the heat of the afternoon, then moved until darkness and exhaustion forced her to stop again.

She had only encountered two rattlesnakes and one scorpion so far.

The rattlesnake tasted pretty good, and she managed to make the meat last for two days.

She hoped an allowance for non-kosher food could be made in a survival situation.

On day four, she was overjoyed to find a small spring of water. She drank until her belly felt as though it would burst. She refilled her canteen, then soaked her clothes in it. She could actually feel her body re-hydrating. New energy. New hope.

Day six. She was traveling north. Or was it west? The sun was directly overhead. Time to stop anyway.

She dreamed of being back in school as a child. She stopped for a drink from the water fountain on the way to class. The stream bubbled up in front of her, cool and inviting. But she could seem to get her mouth to it. The water splashed in her face, on her lips, but would not get in her mouth.

When she woke up, her mouth was pasty and dry. It was almost dark. The last bit of sun peeking over the horizon helped her get her bearings.

_I will not quit._

Quitting was an option. Mossad was tracking her. If she stopped moving for over twelve hours, they would come for her. They would consider it surrender on her part.

_I will not surrender._

A lynx jumped out suddenly. Sleek and powerful, it landed three meters in front of her. She froze, and they eyed each other suspiciously. The cat gave a half-hearted hiss and bounded away.

Her stomach growled loudly as she walked. She had learned that the hunger pains would come and go. They could be ignored, and eventually they would stop.

Thirst was much harder to ignore.

Thirst was a constant, ravenous craving; a torment that weakened the mind and body. Tried to consume the whole being of a person.

She unscrewed the canteen and sucked the last drops from its depths.

_I will not be consumed. I will not quit._

She walked until she could no longer see the path in front of her. The desert was not always bright and hot. The cold crept into the bones on moonless nights like this. She stopped and built a fire near a rocky overhang that would serve as shelter for the night.

_"…in fire by night, to show you by what way ye should go, and in the cloud by day."_

She slept fitfully, waking every forty minutes or so. She dreamed of finding the camp, of finishing the challenge. But he was not there to see it, and the victory felt empty.

As soon as it was light enough to see, she gave up trying to sleep.

The seventh day dawned, bright and hot as the others. She felt tired, dizzy and disoriented. She looked out across the landscape for, well, anything, but the sand and boulders seemed to blur together into an endless sea of brown. She stumbled forward, uncertain. She fell to her hands and knees.

She could stop here, and wait for them to come and find her. Just surviving the challenge would be considered a success. Maybe it was best to wait, to conserve the little strength she had left.

_I am not dead yet. Therefore, I will not quit._

She scanned the horizon again. This time she saw something, a gray pillar rising off in the distance.

_Smoke._

Was it real? Mirages were common in the desert. The heat rose in shimmering waves, confusing the eyes. She climbed up on a boulder for a better look, and this time, there was no doubt. A cloud of smoke billowed up above the horizon. It was the camp.

_…"in fire by night, and in the cloud by day."_

The camp was farther away than it looked. She stumbled in just as the sun went down on the seventh day. Friendly arms and hands welcomed her, guiding her to a tent where food, water, and fresh clothes waited.

Outside the door, the dark figure of a tall man loomed.

"Papa?" she gasped.

He smiled, a careful and controlled smile, as always.

_"Kol HaKavod, Zivaleh._ Well done."


	5. Float

_Float_

He builds boats, in his basement, during his spare time. His team knows it. All of NCIS knows it, really. Nobody really knew why, though. Rumors circulate; everything from "it's how he relieves stress" to "he sells them to fund his retirement" to "he burns them in a huge bonfire when he finishes them. Some kind of pagan sacrifice ritual."

He knows they wonder, and talk, although he hasn't heard the sacrifice rumor yet. He doesn't explain himself, and they never ask because they are too intimidated. He likes it that way. Years in the Core have taught him that action is better than talk. He doesn't volunteer information. Truth be told, he might tell them, if they asked and he was in a decent mood.

Despite what the name "Marine" would suggest, he actually hadn't spent too much time on the water in his life. He built his first boat in the early 80's, around the time he met Shannon. He took her out in it on their first date, wanting to impress her with something different and romantic. It was small, a glorified rowboat, really. He hadn't even bothered to name it or christen it. The boat listed badly to the starboard side, and began to take on water almost immediately because of a small leak (or two). He had to keep scooping the water out with his cupped hands and tossing it over the side while trying to row at the same time. Row a few strokes, scoop some water, row some more, scoop some more…

He was horribly embarrassed, though he tried not to show it. She must have thought him a complete fool. He could tell she was trying to be patient and polite, but a smile kept pulling at her lips. Then a snicker escaped. By the time they finally reached the center of the pond, she had erupted in full-blown giggles.

"I'm glad you find this so amusing," he said, trying to sound serious. But he couldn't quite hold back a chuckle of his own.

Her blue eyes flashed as a devilish look crossed her face. With one swift movement she reached forward, grabbed his shirt, and leaned hard to starboard. In a split-second they were over the side, splashing down into the water.

For a moment they floated, seemingly suspended in time. Cool, soft wetness all around. Bubbles floating up to the surface. He opened his eyes and saw a beam of sunlight cut through the murky water, right where she was.

They stood, dripping and gasping for breath. She was still laughing. Water streamed off her, sleek and beautiful. He was usually such a gentleman on the first date, but he could not help himself

She looked surprised, then pleased, when he gently kissed her. She took his hand.

"Why don't we continue this date on dry land?"

He wanted to ask her to marry him, right then and there. But he waited for seven months, and built another boat in the meantime. It was bigger, and this one didn't leak. When he got down on one knee, it didn't list. He wasn't quite so secure, nearly dropping the ring in the water from nervousness.

They lied in the bottom of the boat all afternoon. She kept looking at her ring, and he kept looking at the way the sun made her red hair shine. They watched the clouds go by until the last bit of sunlight faded from the sky. This time, they managed to stay dry.

He took Kelly out on the boat for the first time when she was four. He insisted she wear a life jacket, and he wore one too, even though he usually wouldn't bother. The importance of setting a good example was becoming more and more clear to him with each day of fatherhood.

He assumed she would be bored with fishing within ten minutes, but she surprised him by taking it very seriously. It was almost like she thought she could will the fish to bite the hook. Maybe she could. She caught five within the first twenty minutes, all keepers.

The last one became the fish story of the year. The bobber went down once, twice. She jerked the pole, and it jerked back, nearly pulling her over the edge of the boat. Gibbs caught her just in time, by the back of the life jacket. The fishing rod flew out of her hands and across the water, propelled by the monstrous one that got away.

She looked stunned, then ashamed. Her lower lip trembled. "I'm sorry, Daddy," she whispered.

He couldn't hide a smile. Then, his great laugh rang out. Soon she was giggling along with him as they packed up the gear.

"How big do you think that fish was, Daddy? Ten pounds?"

"Oh," he said seriously, "twelve pounds at least."

When he got back from Iraq, they were gone. He hadn't been there, and now it was too late. He took the boat out the backyard, doused it with gasoline, and watched it burn to ashes. The fire raged so bright and hot that the neighbors called the fire department. They came and ticketed him for burning inside the city limits without first obtaining the proper permit.

He tossed the ticket in the fire, too.

Twenty-five years and five boats later, he found himself submerged in water once again. The car had crashed off the end of the dock, not into the gentle water of a pond, but into the chilly waters of the Anacostia instead. Cool wetness surrounded him again. Bubbles floated up. But there was no serenity. No sunlight this time. He had come full circle. When the breath finally left his lungs and the water rushed in, he did not fight it.

But it wasn't the right time. He was to continue. He wasn't finished yet. He saw them, both of them, smiling and lovely just the way he remembered. It was enough, for now at least.


End file.
